The Gift Horse
by TangerineFields
Summary: Every year, Sirius Black, conjurer of fantastic presents, buys Remus Lupin disappointment wrapped in shiny paper. Perhaps this year will be different. A Christmas oneshot. May be read as RemusxSirius if you wish.


N/A: For M'rika. A very happy Christmas to all.

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J. K. Rowling.

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**The Gift Horse**

Sirius Black, to whom gift ideas swarmed like Valentine's cards, the veritable IKEA of fool proof plans and schemes adorned in brightly coloured paper fell at a single hurdle each and every year. The conjurer behind James' most successful gift ideas, behind that perfume that Lily had loved so very much, had never once brought an even half way decent present for Remus Lupin.

Every year, while James grinned like a toddler at forty tier exploding snap and Peter toured his latest dancing house elf tree decoration for the dozenth time, Remus was left holding a scarf, or a book he already had, or yet another box of the obvious choice of chocolate, disappointment sinking down to his toes. And every year Sirius would shuffle and refuse to meet his eye until the presents were put away and forgotten about and Christmas faded into the calendar.

The last Christmas they'd spent at the flat, Sirius had burst through the doors carrying more bags than Remus had thought possible for anything that wasn't a Hippogriff, or a train. Bags from Harrods and Hamley's and Honeydukes and bags and bags and bags from Zonkos. And then he'd seen the Whittard's bag and he'd sighed. It would be tea again. Probably green, since Sirius seemed incapable of remembering that he preferred black. And there would, of course, be the shuffling, the refusal to make eye contact. To admit to the terrible truth.

He just couldn't get it right.

It was almost as if he did it deliberately. That there was so little Remusness in the wide world of Oxford Street that Sirius couldn't bring himself to even try. And so on went the scarves and the hats with the bobbles that he never wore, and the bedding that he couldn't help but hate and hate and hate.

What could be so hard, Remus had always wondered. And then, how could I possibly be this difficult to buy for?

No one else seemed to struggle. Books that he'd wanted all year towered in neat, hardbacked piles at the foot of the Christmas tree, teas from his parent's travels, Lily's annual set of tickets to the play for which he'd been coveting velvet seats since opening night. And then, underneath all of it would be Sirius' apology clad in shiny paper. The yearly attempt at a lack of attempting.

It was, therefore, with great trepidation that Remus approached the huge tree in the living room of 12 Grimmauld Place on Christmas morning. That Azkaban could have in anyway altered Sirius' streak of bad luck seemed incredibly unlikely. It certainly hadn't diminished his knack for predicting Christmas perfection. His almost impossible to find, annotated copy of 'Hogwarts: A History', gifted to Hermione with not so much as a flourish would have made Trelawney green with envy. Sirius' presents had caused so many squeals and smiles and sighs of adulation that even Molly had been impressed. And now, finally, in a rare lull, there was Remus, worn jumper clad, making his way towards the innocuous brown paper parcel that was all that was left of the mountain of presents.

Not a scarf, he prayed silently, please not a scarf.

It was bulky and heavy and if it was a scarf, Remus thought as he carried it back to his armchair, it was knitted from rope and iron links. He sat down and wished he'd picked a less conspicuous place, maybe a little bit less in the spotlight glow of the fairy lights.

"What have you got, Remus?" Hermione had torn herself from her beautiful book to smile politely up at him. He tested the sellotape with his nail.

"It's from Sirius," he said, and attempted a smile but wasn't sure it survived the journey from his brain to his lips.

"You should open it."

Remus glanced up and then wished that he hadn't. There was Sirius, all haloed against the tree like some sort of holy gift horse.

"I'm getting there," He said, a little tersely and then wished he'd held his tongue. This ruse was not holding up well. He tugged at the sellotape, which refused to budge. Fantastic. A puzzle scarf.

"Here," The parcel of deepest disappointment slid from his lap and into Sirius' hands. "Look, you just," there was a loud tear, "Rip it, Rem."

And there it was. Held aloft in Sirius' blue veined hands was the Holy Grail. It wasn't Enchantments in Baking, or a pot of floo powder (don't be a stranger), it was the Secret Garden, it was his childhood swaddled in leather and the musk of very old book. For a very long time, Remus stared.

"Rem?" Sirius wasn't shuffling or muttering but looking at his offering as if he'd just delivered a child. "Did I get it right?"

Remus reached out and very gently ran the tips of his fingers over the leather. It was cool, carefully intended with gold and a very small girl and a very special doorway.

"How did you…" He stopped and realised with a jolt that he was finally experiencing that feeling that he'd seen mirrored on his friend's faces for years. The feeling that Sirius just knew. "It's perfect."

"It's yours." Sirius pushed it across the gap, the canyon of scarves and hazelnut whirls and green tea and Charles Dickens, and slid the Perfect Present into Remus' hands.

"Merry Christmas," he said and then, "It's a thank you, of sorts."

"For what?" Remus looked up, grey eyes and brown eyes meeting, crow's feet aligning, grey hairs compiling, old remembered expressions falling into place.

"For being so damn hard to buy for," Sirius sat down at the foot of the armchair and in an old remembered gesture leant his head against Remus' knee. "I owe you a lifetime of presents like that after all those scarves."

Remus laughed and lent back into the old springs and felt content for the first Christmas since turning eleven. "Yes," he murmured, "But this will do for now."


End file.
